Authors: John Turney
He had just reached his car when a yell exploded close by. In the far corner of the lot, two males in their mid to late thirties argued nose to nose. One sported a ball cap, and the other appeared to be the valet. Ball Cap pushed the other man away. The valet threw a weak punch into the Ball Cap’s gut, causing him to bend over double. The valet stood over him with his fists raised in a menacing gesture. He yelled something, but the noise echoed off the cement walls, and Rye couldn’t tell what was said.
Rye fished out his badge and held it up. Pulling out his Glock, he walked toward the two, his handgun pointed downwards.
“Hey!” Rye shouted. “What’s going on?”
The two ignored him.
“Police!” Rye shouted. “Freeze!”
Moving closer, Rye thought the two sounded drunk. He hated angry drunks. The situation never turned out well for anyone.
“PO-LICE” Rye bellowed. He passed one of the thick cement
columns. A warning surged through Rye’s mind. Something didn’t look right.
At that moment, Ball Cap stood upright and unfazed. Rye recognized the man. He faced the driver of the blue Ford F150 truck.
“Got you, po-po,” a familiar voice said behind him. A hard object crashed down on his head, sending a shower of white sparks whirling through his vision. He felt the cool cement against his cheek and realized he had fallen. A hand rolled him over and grabbed the front of his shirt. Someone raised him off the cement. A familiar face swam into view. Yet, the owner’s name refused to surface in his vertigo world. A fist shot like a rocket towards his face. In the next breath, his world went black.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rye cracked open an eye. Lights overhead.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Rye? You awake?”
A familiar voice.
“Rye.” The voice came into his vision, an indistinct shape. “This is your uncle.”
“Chee?” Rye licked his lips. One side felt … enlarged. Tasted of blood. “Where …”
“You’re in a hospital. You got beat up pretty bad.”
He heard another familiar voice. A woman’s. But from a distant memory.
Who’s that?
Rye opened his eyes, or tried to open both. One eye refused. The other eye found Chee, a worried smile worn on his wind-aged face. Rye couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking into the face of a killer. Time for that discussion later. Like when he could talk without pain oozing from his pores.
“We,” a shallow breath and a wince, “need to,” another shallow breath, “talk.”
“Later. How do you feel, nephew?” Chee asked.
“Did someone get the serial number,” Rye paused, the words leaking out of his mouth like a weak faucet drip, “of the Abrams M1 tank?”
Chee laughed.
Rye closed his eye. “Don’t … laugh.”
“Stop telling jokes.”
“How?”
“How to stop telling jokes?” Chee said.
“Find … me.”
“A mutual friend knew you were in trouble. She led me to the Wyndham parking lot. I found three men beating up on you. One had just lifted you halfway off the ground and hit you in the face.” Chee laughed silently. “I scare them good. White men fear drunken crazy Indian.”
“Then … you saw them?”
“Yeah. I gave their descriptions to the police.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Chee cleared his throat and shot a look to a distant part of the room. “There’s somebody else waiting here for you?”
A beautiful Native woman with long black hair came into view. Despite being much older than the last time he saw her, Rye knew her in a second.
“Sunflower?”
“It is. How are you feeling, Rye Dawlsen?” Her toothy smile failed to mask her concern.
“Seeing you always makes me feel better.”
Her smile faded. “I contacted Chee. An evil trouble surrounds you. I see it in my dreams.”
Rye did not have time to reply as a nurse, wearing Looney Toons scrubs, walked in to check his condition. She forced him to use her thermometer. Checked his pulse. Checked his fluids. Looked at his IV and turned to leave. “That’s all, folks,” she said.
“Nurse … wait,” he called out.
I can’t miss Manny’s tourney.
“Yes?”
“What time is it?”
“It’s a little after midnight. You’re here for observation. You got a nasty knock on the head. Your ribs are bruised. You have a tiny fracture at your eye socket, probably from a punch. I’d hate to be on the giving end of that. The owner’s hand probably suffered significant bruising. You received numerous hits or kicks, which will be sore and bruised. Other than that, I think you’ll live.”
“I need to get out of here by eight.”
“If the doctor—” She cocked her head and frowned.
“No, you don’t understand.” Rye paused, grunting at the sharp sting in his ribs. “I have to get back to …” The injured ribs forced him to silence.
I have to get back to my family. That’s what I have to get back to.
“I’ll check with the doctor.” She stared down at him and sighed. “If there are no complications, I see no problem getting you out of here by then. Except, you’ll be hurting with every move.”
He grinned and then winced. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
The nurse smiled and left. Chee leaned over the bed.
“Nephew, I know one of the men who hurt you.”
Rye raised one eyebrow. “Go on.”
Chee paused and looked around as if to make sure no one could hear him. “He works for Mayor List … that former Chief of Police … Barend Jilt.”
Rye eased out of the cab, every move accompanied by a groan. Though he stood with most of his weight on his good leg, his damaged knee protested any load.
“This hurts worse than sticking a cactus up your nose.” Leaning against the cab, Rye looked up at the steel canopies of the convention center jutting out over the street. Sunlight reflected off their beams. His first visit to the convention center, he brought Dee on a date for some event. His memory failed at recalling the event, but he’d never forget their kiss-fest stroll across the glassed-in walkway.
Chee paid the cabbie while Sunflower helped Rye step up out of the street. Their cab pulled away and another pulled to the curb.
Rye hobbled a few steps by himself. Sweat covered his face. His uncle came alongside. “Lean on me, Nephew.”
“Thanks,” Rye said, putting his arm around Chee’s shoulders. He
marveled at the strength he felt in his uncle. He took several steps before his injured knee buckled.
Rye glanced at Chee and grunted, “I hate that. I hate when that happens.”
“How did those men attack you?”
Rye pursed his lips in consideration. “They set me up. Staged a fight. I tried to stop it. That’s when they jumped me.”
“Why would they do that?”
Rye studied his uncle’s weathered face for a few seconds. “They’re List’s men. It appears the mayor wants me out of the way for some reason.”
“He is one bad round-eye,” Chee said.
Sunflower interrupted, “If we want to make the meet on time, we’ll have to drag this helpless white man to the auditorium.”
Rye said, “Squaw makes joke.”
Sunflower punched him on the shoulder.
“Great!” Rye exaggerated a wince. “You’ve injured the one place I don’t hurt.”
With Chee assisting Rye, they managed their way toward the doors with Sunflower close behind them. Children dressed in karate outfits and their parents flowed past them like a stream around rocks.
Rye limped his way past the ticket areas. Approaching the glass doors, he saw himself in the reflection: a man barely able to walk with a patch over his eye, a split lip, and a face ripening into a bruise.
That’s enough to scare the fur off a mountain lion.
He pushed through the doors and took a flyer from a teenage girl who stared at his face.
“You should see the other guy,” Rye told her.
A few minutes later, they approached the North Room where the meets were to take place. Rye leaned on Chee again. At this point, all he wanted to do was to locate Dee and find a seat.
Out of the swirl of crowd, a man carrying a tray of beers bumped into him, splashing Rye’s shirt.
“Hey,” Rye yelled, “watch it.”
“Hey yourself,” Beer Man started to say something else, but when he saw Rye’s face, he mumbled an apology and disappeared into the crowd.
At least my ugly mug is good for something.
Sunflower vanished into the swirl of people. Returning seconds later with a handful of napkins, she commenced on daubing the wet spots.
When she finished, Sunflower carted the wet wad to a trash container. Rye glanced down at the wet blot on his shirt. The napkins had done little to soak up the hand-sized spot.
“Rye Dawlsen,” spat Dee’s voice from behind. “I’m surprised you came. But for God’s sake, it’s only nine in the morning and already you smell like a brewery. Did you have to do this to your son?”
Rye stiffened at the tone of her voice, that blackboard-scratching sound of reproach.
He lowered his arm from Chee’s shoulder. With a limp that must have resembled a drunken stagger to one predisposed toward that opinion, he turned to face her.
With a sharp intake of air, hands going to her mouth, and dark eyes opening wide, she said, “Rye … what happened?”
“I was on the wrong end of a beating. Got jumped in the parking
lot where I’m staying. Sorry about the beer smell, some … umm fellow attendee … just spilled it all over me.” He indicated the wet spot on his shirt.
Just then, Sunflower walked up, “I was trying to wipe it away.”
“And you are …?” Dee stared at the woman and left the question dangling.
“Dee,” Rye indicated his estranged wife then indicated the Navajo woman, “this is Sunflower. The older sister of a high school buddy and an acquaintance of Chee’s.”
Sunflower held out her hand. With reluctance splashed across her face, Dee shook her hand.
Sunflower held her head high, “I read your newspaper articles. You always write good things about the
Dine
. Thank you.”
“Rye taught me to appreciate the Native way,” Dee said.
With that, Dee rushed into Rye’s arms and squeezed him to her. He gasped. Agony sliced him like a knife blade jabbed between ribs.
“What? Did I …?” She started to pull back, but Rye held her tight.
“No.” He twisted her hair with his forefinger and thumb, reliving when they dwelt in each other’s arms for stretched-out minutes. “My ribs are bruised a little.” She tried pulling away again, but he held on. “No. Don’t. I’m okay. Having you in my arms is worth it all.”
She laughed and slapped him lightly on his shoulder. “Such a romantic.”
“You remember Chee.”
She held out her hand to him. “Yeah, he deposited you on the front porch many a night.” Rye opened his mouth; she cut him off. “Your uncle only offered sympathy and support for us.” She turned to the Navajo. “How are you, Chee?”
“It’s good to see my nephew’s flower smiling again,” he replied taking her hand.
Dee looked at her watch. “Manny will be up shortly. Care to join us?”
Before they could take a step, Chee put an arm out to block Rye. “Don’t look. But Jilt is here. I recognize his white hat with the Confederate flag pin and feathered hatband.”
Dee shot worried glances between Rye and Chee. “Rye, what’s going on?”
“Remember Jilt?”
She nodded.
“It was he and two of his buddies who attacked me. Security’s tight, so they won’t do anything here. Let’s find Manny.”
Sunflower leaned forward to speak into Rye’s ear. “The one who desires your death is here.”
That’s when the milling crowd parted to reveal the man in black standing a few yards behind Jilt. The man stared at the ground.
“Found him.”
As the words left Rye’s mouth, the man in black glanced up and locked eyes with him, shooting a sudden chill through him, so much so, that his breath came in short gasps.
The man in black smiled without any friendliness, touched a forefinger to the brim of his hat, and, turning, disappeared into the crowd.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Rye blinked his eyes open. His head pressed against the passenger window of his Tahoe while one hand held his Stetson on his lap. He
remembered Dee driving his Tahoe as she jabbered nervously. She had said something about Chee following them in his uncle’s truck and that Sunflower rode with his uncle. South Mountain had loomed off to the right. Then nothing. He must have drifted off.
Now, he watched the heat-shimmering flat lands of I-8 flying past his window. Faint mountains formed the background. For a second, he had no clue as to his exact whereabouts.
Then he heard Dee humming to the tune on the radio, and it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes and smiled, concentrating on her voice. It felt good to have her in the car with him.